Archive of Our Own ^beta

It starts like most nights do in their home: simple. Cuddled up in bed, snacks scattered around the blankets between them and a movie playing—tonight it’s Howl’s Moving Castle, a weekly watch—while they proceed to not watch the movie at all. Minho has gotten in the funny habit of tapping his phone’s stopwatch feature on as soon as the movie begins, to see how far they make it before he or Jisung gets handsy. 

They’ve seen the movie plenty of times—it’s basically just a soundtrack at this point. He thinks Jisung’s moans fill the spaces of each melody just right anyway, so much that he can’t really recall the original flow of the songs without breathy little whimpers and low whines stringing the notes together.

Sometimes they don’t even make it five minutes, sometimes Jisung is rutting against Minho’s thigh and reciting dialogue between their clashing teeth, and sometimes Minho gets inspired while pounding Jisung into the mattress, cooing oh-so-meanly, A cock’s a heavy burden, isn’t it baby?

Sometimes feels a lot like every time, but sometimes—it’s not.

Tonight, Jisung is exhausted from a day packed with schedules and studio business. Despite Minho having set up their planned movie night so that when Jisung got home all he had to do was collapse in bed and be loved on, there was still the looming fact that they both had to be up by 6am for tour rehearsals because the next leg was somehow already only three weeks away.

Selfishly, Minho wished their winter break went a little bit longer, because the weather was finally getting nice again, and he wanted at least one slow morning with Jisung where he could wake up, open the windows, and smell spring while Jisung talked with the little pigeons who lived outside.

Look, hyung, they’re just like us!  

But they’re at the mercy of their livelihood and simplicity is to be lost among reality, though it’s not lost on Minho. He packs simplicity with him and brings it wherever they go, because it will always be home for them.

Jisung is slow to crawl into bed and melt in the space between Minho’s legs, the weight of the day finally bearing down on him. Minho is quick to pull him closer, up against a strong chest balanced by a soft stomach that provides just the right amount of give, warmth, and support to hush the weariest parts of Jisung, quieting all those complexities with something stable, steady. His personal tranquilizer. 

Minho stretches an arm out towards the nightstand to start the stopwatch and slinks it back around Jisung’s waist before he can whine about the absence.

Jisung quietly mumbles along with the movie’s opening scene and unwraps a strawberry candy, then a lime one. He holds the lime candy out above his shoulder for Minho, who leans forward to take it right from his fingers. He hums an appreciative little sound. Jisung pops the strawberry one into his own mouth, making an indiscriminate noise of acknowledgement back—a form of communication exclusive to them. 

It doesn’t take very long to figure out Jisung is fighting consciousness. Minutes, if that.

“We don’t have to watch this tonight, bug.” Minho murmurs. Jisung's weight is dead against Minho’s torso and he’s made no move for another piece of candy–no move at all really–his head slouched back against Minho’s shoulder like a ragdoll. Devastatingly adorable if it weren’t for the fact that he was literally run ragged. 

“’M fine, just tired.” He waves a hand around and hooks it back at the nape of Minho’s neck, giving him a few lazy scratches like an owner would their cat. Jisung’s voice is so low, no amount of control in it, just a slur of syllables that only Minho can decipher. A music flow meant for him alone. 

“I can see that,” Minho rolls his eyes, but there's no hiding the smile that accompanies every word. His hands snake underneath the hoodie Jisung had changed into once he’d gotten home–one they shared constantly and had since dubbed their comfort hoodie–and thumbs start to rub small, soothing circles on the sides of his hips. “Why don’t you just sleep, hm? Don’t force yourself to stay up for me.” He keeps his voice quiet, lets his left hand wander to take a more scenic route in favor of tracing along the abstract but intricate lines of Jisung’s tattoo, listens to the sigh he lets out when his fingers bump at the hem of his sweatpants.

Jisung spares a lazy gaze at the movie before tilting his head just enough to look at Minho and blink those big, glassy, beautifully round eyes right at him.

“But I missed you.” 

Lethal.

Minho doesn’t even realize he’d stopped moving until Jisung grabs him by the wrist and guides his hand beneath his pants and onto his half hard cock, bringing him right back up to speed. He presses his palm down just so, hears a gravelly little sound get caught in Jisung’s throat, and raises a brow.

“You’re barely awake and yet,” A few strokes, a thumb dragging along his slit, a whine that somehow is in perfect key with the music, something only Jisung could manage, “...you can’t help yourself. Missed me that bad?” 

“So bad.” Jisung draws the words out like they’re a sin. Minho devours them like a prayer.

“What do you want me to do, baby?” Minho dips his head down, angling it to press a kiss to strawberry flavored lips. His fist continues to pump Jisung to full hardness as he swallows a few breathy moans, “You’re not going to be able to stay awake for all this, look at you.” 

It’s equal parts endearing and heartbreaking, seeing the toll these types of days take on Jisung and how he still wants nothing more than to be unraveled by Minho at the end of it all.

He loves him so much.

“You can–ah–” Jisung’s hips kick up but Minho’s right hand is quick to pin him right back down, easily. “If I fall asleep, just keep going–”

Minho stops. Blinks. “Jisung.”

Jisung begs, albeit sleepily. “Pleasepleaseplease don’t stop. Hyung, please.”

“We’ve never talked about this.” He takes Jisung’s lower lip between his teeth and tugs, like doing so would drag to the surface any of Jisung's remaining consciousness and he’d hear how ridiculous he sounds for suggesting Minho fuck him while he sleeps. “We need to talk about this.”

Ridiculous, he repeats to himself, trying to conjure some rationale in a place where it should’ve been so, so abundant and intuitive. 

Right?

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Jisung states assuredly, pushing a finger up against Minho’s pointedly pursed lips to shush him before he could protest. “I trust you. I love you. I want you to do whatever you need to.”

Jisung smiles then, like the sun right before dipping below the horizon—bright and sizzling—ready to rest and entrust everything to the moon.

He traces the cupid’s bow of Minho’s upper lip, “...Want you to do whatever you want…” dips into the valley of his pronounced philtrum, “...with me.”

And then that sweet as citrus smile morphs into a cocky grin, a forbidden fruit that Minho has long since known the taste of. 

“Besides, I think it’d be hot.”

Minho snorts and bites the tip of his finger. Jisung just winks.

He takes a second to carefully read Jisung’s expression, study his body for any wariness. A slap on the shoulder. A skrr before admitting he was just joking. 

It never comes.

“Please?” 

Whatever thread Minho’s resolve was pulled taut against was now fraying against the blade, fiber by fiber, thanks to an all-too-signature pout on Jisung’s lips. It was never necessary, but Minho would never tell him that; he loved to see him beg. 

“You’re sure? Anything you don’t want me doing?” 

Denying Jisung won’t solve anything at this point. He could count on one hand the amount of times he’s told Jisung no. So he’ll give in, and give it to him right.

Jisung gives his head a low effort shake and wiggles his hips, absolutely on purpose, and Minho groans down into his shoulder. 

“I jus’ gotta be able to walk.” 

Good lord.

The weak little thread snaps, and Minho decides it’s too late to argue, and too late to ignore the fact that his own cock is now straining against Jisung’s back and has–rather embarrassingly–twitched in interest at the topic of discussion. 

“Promise?” Minho asks one last time. One, last, feeble attempt, as the pads of his fingers begin ghosting over the pronounced vein of Jisung’s shaft, eager to resume. 

“Mhm, just keep doing what you’re doing, jagi.” He cards his fingers up through Minho’s hair, pushing the fringe from his forehead before locking his hand atop his head to tug him down for another kiss, sealing it with bruising certainty. 

Maybe it’s because their schedules are only going to get impossibly busier from tomorrow onwards. Maybe it’s because sex is about to become so much more scarce as opposed to the near daily occurrence it's been during their break. But Minho is giddy–and alarmed by it. He’s always excited to have sex with Jisung, but to say he’s excited about having sex with an unconscious Jisung–

“Stop overthinking, ‘s my job.” Jisung yanks at his hair, the words reverberating into Minho’s mouth like a purr.

He simply nods, surrendering to whatever devices were about to take over. 

There’s no universe where Minho won’t take care of Jisung, no matter how unorthodox. Jisung knows that. 

And now Minho is going to fuck him while he sleeps.

“I love you.” He murmurs with finality before untangling himself from Jisung so he could scoop him up and promptly lay him on his back. He shoves the snacks and candy towards the opposite side of the bed, uncaring to the fact that they will all likely end up on the floor.

Jisung’s hair fans messily on the pillow and he looks up at Minho like he’s about to pitch a fit with his last remaining percent of lucidness. So bratty. 

“Just making sure you’re comfortable, baby. Hard to fuck you if you’re laying on me like a sack of potatoes.”

Calcifer’s yelling behind them, and Minho has to laugh because he’d completely forgotten the movie, his mind a little preoccupied with a far more exciting prospect lying beneath him. A disheveled and drowsy little prospect. 

Minho doesn’t need to spread Jisung’s legs because they’re already open and waiting, a regular sight, but one he never gets tired of. He kneels between them and lets the heel of his palm drag the charcoal colored hoodie up his broadened torso until his eyes are Blessed. 

Jisung is so pretty. The light of the movie that isn’t eclipsed by Minho bounces against Jisung, who is much closer to being asleep than not at this point. 

So, he leans down and takes a nipple into his mouth, suckling hard enough to see if he can draw a sound out of him, see if this is something real and not just a wet dream he didn’t know he craved.

“Ah–may all your bacon burn.” Jisung half mumbles half sings, much too cute for his own good. He arches his back with something that’s both a yawn and a moan and Minho feels every cell in his body light up from it. That’s new.

Their clothed cocks grind against one another and Minho has to flatten a palm on Jisung’s stomach to force him back onto the mattress. If he’s going to have the opportunity, he’s not gonna lose it prematurely to some goddamn grinding. 

If Jisung was going to let him take, he was going to take.

“Goodnight, baby.” Minho says it with more authority than affection, a touch of bite in his tone as he begins his trek down Jisung’s body, littering it with hickeys among the garden of ones from days past that had yet to heal.

His lips brush past Tuesday, no more than a fading blemish right on his throat now, a rare placement that could only be seized during long breaks of no schedules. He kisses right beneath Thursday, a particularly brutal bite right under his collarbone. His thumbs trace over Friday, the imprint of Minho’s fingers on Jisung’s hips where Minho had anchored onto him from behind and just wouldn't let go. 

Beautiful reminders of time to spare.

He sucks on a hickey he’d left two days ago, right under his left pec and close to his heart, deciding he doesn’t want it to heal anytime soon. He bullies the tender skin until it’s blooming red and fresh once again. 

He leaves a myriad of rose colored marks, like petals cascading down Jisung’s midsection, parallel to the permanence of ink. An intimate bouquet. 

He wants the imprint of his teeth branded on Jisung’s body forever. Wordless and definite. Unmistakably Minho. Undeniably his. 

Minho could never bring it up though, because Jisung would—easily and without hesitation—actually go and get Minho’s bite tattooed on his body.

He’ll at least wait until after the tour before casually dropping it into conversation. 

A few big breaths pass and Minho watches from where he’s got his teeth in the waistband of Jisung’s sweats, like a lion waiting to pounce. 

Nothing if not lulled, Jisung just nestles half of his face into the pillows and settles in. He uses his last stream of consciousness to warp Minho’s entire understanding of desire.

“Mm…more.” 

A sound that Minho never associated with anything but the start of his own name, was a consonant that now had him on a leash and served as his center of gravity whenever it left Jisung’s perfect, plump mouth. More. Minho. Mine. 

Mine.

Mine.

Something akin to a growl tries to fight itself out of Minho then, but he’s got a mouthful of fabric keeping him muzzled so he just sinks his nose down into Jisung’s lower abdomen and lets the movie fill the space instead. Jisung knows what he means, anyway. 

I’ve got you, baby.

Hands come under Jisung’s hips, fingers hook into his pants, and teeth help drag them down before they’re tossed to the floor. Jisung’s cock curves hard against his stomach. Flushed, pink, whimpering for attention. It’s a stark reminder to Minho that it’s the only remaining part of Jisung that’s awake. 

He sucks in a breath and smooths his hands up along Jisung’s thighs, eyes flicking to his face.

Jisung doesn’t stir. Eyes long since fluttered shut and kiss swollen lips parted for steady breaths that fall in rhythm with the rise and fall of his chest. The visual wreaks havoc on Minho: the hoodie bunched at his shoulders, arms framing his head, the ravishing marks on honey skin; all barely contained by the fencing of a massive tattoo that spreads down past his hip and lines his upper thigh. Saturated in sensuality.

He sleeps so soundly, legs open and every inch of him there for the taking.

“Fuck. Okay.” The words choke out of him for nobody to hear. 

The members and just about everyone had come to learn over the years that Jisung could sleep anywhere, at any time, in virtually any position if granted. They’d eventually started playing little games and pranks on him while he slept, but they stopped being fun because, well, he was never bothered. Rocks slept lighter than Jisung, and he’d be the first to declare that beauty sleep was of the utmost importance. And frankly, Minho has seen him put so many things before his own health, that yeah, Jisung should be allowed to knock out wherever he wants, no questions asked. 

So here he is, knocked out.

Beneath a beast who just woke up and wants to eat him alive. 

“It’s a shame I can’t knock you up, bug.” The intrusive thought slips out of him, and before he can feel ashamed, he giggles. 

Jisung isn’t listening. 

An intense swell of power surges through Minho, physically manifesting as a vivid red that tinges the tips of his ears and flushes down his neck straight to his chest.

“You look so pretty, baby.” He coos as his hands travel up Jisung’s hips, palming over the soft, relaxed lines of his stomach that house strong, currently useless muscles. “You’re gonna look even prettier when you wake up.” 

He dips his head down and noses at Jisung’s ear, teeth grazing the lobe and tongue darting out to flick the hoop of his earring, “My little pillow princess.” 

This was a buffet of his wildest dreams: no restrictions, no limits, just pure satiation. And Minho was willing to eat himself to death if it meant having Jisung on a silver platter in front of him like this.

Wasting no more time, he grabs a pillow and hikes Jisung’s legs over his shoulders so he can prop it beneath his hips. Cat-like eyes flit to check on him once more, paranoia throwing its last punch.

Asleep. 

This is where Minho should let go of Jisung’s legs. Start prepping him. But there are no rules here. So instead, he turns his head into the meat of his calf and bites. Not hard enough to leave anything that won’t heal before morning, but enough to satisfy the growing little itch in his brain that told him to ruin.

He bites up Jisung’s leg, again, again, again—manhandling his lower body until he’s cradling his right thigh in his hands and sucking on the soft inner flesh so that it bursts blood vessels and promises a bruise for Minho’s greed. For his eyes only. 

He pulls away heaving, eyes wide and burning at a sleeping Jisung. 

They’re both drooling, for entirely separate reasons.

Minho acts on another impulse.

He finally releases Jisung’s legs unceremoniously–a predator finished with the corpse of its prey–and spreads them as far as they’ll naturally rest before crawling up to hover over his face, weight propped on his right forearm while his left hand comes up to tempt a touch right at the corner of Jisung’s mouth that’s closest to the pillow, where his cheek bunches up and makes the cutest little crease. Where drool pools and pours out onto the pillow. 

“Such a messy little thing.” An undeniable amount of fondness spills out from the cracks of condescension. 

Slowly then, with nothing but a controlled core, Minho rolls his hips down onto Jisung’s bare cock, his own straining against the cotton of his jersey shorts, and the friction is so electric it leaves him stuttering out a pitchy, borderline pathetic moan that merges with the music in the background.

He’s going to lose his mind tonight.

“Gonna fuck your own drool back into you, how’s that sound, hm?”

No response.

Minho grinds down onto him again, harder.

“Good boy.”

Caving in to his craving, he uses two fingers to swipe up as much drool as he can from the side of Jisung’s mouth up to the corner where it continues to puddle out from. He immediately brings those same two, now soaked fingers down to push right onto the pert tightness of his rim. He circles it, feels it gives beneath his touch, and presses the first finger in as patiently as he can. Tight. Hot.

Once he’s knuckle deep, he starts to thrust in and out, relying purely on his own assessment of Jisung’s wet heat before pushing the second finger in with it, scissoring and stretching with a technique that had years of practice. 

Now, that practice of learning Jisung was accompanied with whining, moaning, writhing, lots of crying and ‘hyung, please’—not the current state of silence and squelching—but that was why Minho was a professional, and he knew what Jisung needed, exactly when he needed it. Jisung was his baby, after all. He knew him inside and out, good day or bad, and in this case: awake or asleep.

Jisung’s cock starts to drool too, beads of precum leaking out onto his stomach.

“Look at you.” He sits back on his haunches so he can take in the view of his fingers being swallowed up by Jisung’s hole. He licks his lips at the sight, voice completely on edge as he crooks the two fingers deeper—but it’s not enough. He wants more. Jisung would want more. He would be pawing at his shoulders and begging at this point, rocking down on his knuckles all impatient and out of rhythm and Minho would roll his eyes and–naturally–give him exactly what he wanted. 

More, please jagi, I can take it. I can take it!

“Don’t worry baby, I know you can’t say please right now but–” He practically folds Jisung in half to get a better angle, right hand digging into the plump flesh between his thigh and cheek to spread him open just a bit more—

And Minho spits, right onto his pretty hole. Watches as it gets carried away by his own fingers that fuck it all in alongside Jisung’s drool. Minho’s eyes are blown so wide there’s nothing left but mesmerized blots of obsidian. He spits again, drives a third finger in, and his face nearly splits in half with a purely patronizing grin as Jisung’s body opens right up for him, so beautifully obedient. “I’m sure you’ll thank me in the morning.” 

The sound is something else. So much louder. Salacious and filthy without anything to drown it out. Minho truly thinks he’s going to die if he doesn’t amplify those sounds tenfold with his own cock in the next minute. 

“Fuck.” He’s fighting a losing battle with his own primal hunger, but he can’t help himself from burying his tongue inside of Jisung as soon as he pulls his fingers out, licking and fucking into him until he can’t breathe. There’s no one to tell him to, no one to pull at his hair and tether him to reality. He’d die here if he could. Lost in a face full of Jisung’s ass is probably the greatest way he could go out. 

He comes up gasping, face covered in spit and drool and chin shiny with it all as he lays Jisung’s hips back on the pillow and dives down to lap up the precum off of his stomach, too. He kitten-licks the tip of Jisung’s cock and blinks up at him, eyes hazy with want, with a yearning to please that Jisung can’t even see.

Jisung’s skin had flushed from his cheeks to his chest, not as red as he usually was during sex, and certainly not as red as Minho was right now, but just enough where Minho could tell he was very much aroused, and even if he wasn’t awake, he was positively responsive. 

Minho didn’t know what this was all going to be like, and while a tiny part of him in the back of his brain was nervous at the idea originally, the larger part of him wanted to fulfill every sexual fantasy that Jisung trusted him with, because he worked harder than anyone, and deserved to have his world rocked however he wanted. 

Jisung is his rockstar, after all. It’s only fitting. 

He doesn’t spend any extra time on Jisung’s cock, as much as he wants to, because he doesn’t know what it’ll take for him to come like this. He’d rather find out when he’s already inside of him, testing the limits on his own terms, then push right past them and plummet towards something deeper. 

Slipping off the bed, he shuffles over to the nightstand to fish out the lube from the top drawer. He’s greeted by the stopwatch on his phone, long forgotten and now completely inaccurate. 

He chuckles. Nothing could’ve prepared him for what Jisung sprung on him tonight. They probably didn’t even make it ten minutes if he had to guess. He taps the stopwatch, locks his phone, and pops the lube cap with his left hand.

The sound is loud, Jisung stirs.

Minho tilts his head. Waits.

His legs shift around like he’s stretching, but ultimately he just lolls his head towards the window and curls an arm around the new Hanquokka plush that lives on the bed alongside Leebit—Jisung had thrown him the biggest boba-eyed pout at the end of the fanmeet and he stood no chance—probably trying to subconsciously cuddle Minho, who isn’t sleeping beside him. An adorable little drool stain is left on the pillow in his wake, his right cheek all red and sticky with sleep and drool and he’s the image of peace as he settles back into slumber.

Somewhere in his stupor of staring at Jisung, he’d dropped his shorts and started stroking himself with a lubed up fist. 

“You’re so fucking crazy.” Minho breathes out, ragged and dry like the air itself was too heavy so all his voice could do was die in the thick of it. A singular cloud dismembered by desert heat. 

He doesn’t know if he’s referring to Jisung, himself, or both. 

In a tunnel minded daze, he steps out of his shorts and crawls on his knees back between Jisung’s legs. Usually, pumping himself like this does nothing for him. Too boring. He hates the way his own hands feel smaller than they already are, because Jisung’s are just right, and his mouth is even better. Now though, Minho’s lips are parted open for shaky breaths as he fucks himself into his own hand, chasing a biding heat that he has to fight from boiling over, all from simply staring at Jisung’s soft, sleeping body. 

Jisung’s fingers tug the stuffed Hanquokka closer, definitely drooling on its brown velvety cheek now. For a singular second, Minho is so grateful it’s not Leebit staring up at him. There’s no way he could fuck Jisung while staring down at those beady eyes.

What is wrong with me. 

There’s a lot they need to talk about tomorrow. 

Beads of precum mix with the lube on his cock and he brings his warm, well-coated fingers down to give Jisung one last proper stretch, no amount of desperation hindering him from being absolutely sure Jisung could take him. Minho was big—that was apparently a universally known fact, one that he quietly delighted in—and had Jisung been awake, he probably wouldn’t have even bothered with the extra measure. 

But he’s not.

Minho pulls three fingers out and lines himself up to Jisung’s hole that clenches around nothing. His hips push forward just enough so that his tip breeches inside, and he gasps. It’s the loudest thing in his ears.

“Ready, baby?” He asks out of habit, sliding further into his heat as slow as he can manage, so the tightness of Jisung’s walls can adjust around him. A conversation between him and Jisung’s body.

Every sensation is amplified a thousand times over without Jisung’s signature sounds to keep his mind busy. He misses them.

He hears his own heart, rabbiting in his chest with so much force it could snap his ribs in half. He hears Jisung’s tiny, sleepy noises that Minho cannot believe are coming out of him, especially since he’s now fully seated inside him.

His hips press flush against Jisung and he stares–unblinking–down at him. Equal parts flabbergasted and unnaturally turned on.

Truly a talent, but then again, Minho wholeheartedly believed there was nothing Jisung couldn’t do, so who was he to think sleep fucking was off the table. 

His cock twitches inside of Jisung, and he pulls out slowly, finally blinking in rapid succession in order to watch the way his entire shaft slides out of him, right up to the tip, before thrusting inside of him even slower. He steadies his hands on Jisung’s hips as he starts to slip back in, eyes glued to the motion of his cock disappearing, all careful and constrained in movement alone. The rest of him is a trembling, gasping, stuttering mess relying on every neuron to hold it together. He's grateful Jisung can’t hear him because as far as he’s concerned he sounds like a goddamn virgin.

His fingers clench and the blunt of his nails leave indentations somewhere around Friday's marks. Another painstakingly slow thrust follows, then another. Composed. Controlled. 

Hyung, please–need more, stop teasing me! Jisung would be close to tears already, jerking his hips this way and that just to try and get Minho moving. In those circumstances, Minho would be the first to admit he’s sadistic, loves to see his little bug begging, blubbering and pathetic, all for some cock. His cock. He’d coo at his tantrum, press his palm to Jisung’s weeping cock with enough pressure to serve as a warning for worse, and lick the tears right off the slope of his jawline. Be a good boy and take what you’re given.

Here though, sadism is replaced with a new type of dominance. One that cradles vulnerability like freshly blown glass.

“Not teasing you, baby.” He reassures the Jisung in his mind. “Don’t wanna hurt you.” His throat is on fire, consumed with a carnal type of lust that he’s barely managing to choke down. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

Not like this, at least.

He rolls his pelvis experimentally, just a touch more snap at the end that requires his whole core. 

Jisung involuntarily arches at the familiarity and his body tightens around Minho like it’s trying to welcome him home. 

Minho sees stars, god, and the secrets of the universe. 

"Fuck."

Careful had run its course. Hunger floods in its place. 

Minho cups his hands under Jisung’s ass to lift him to a better angle and sets a pace. Now, he wants to push buttons, enter Jisung’s psyche and influence his mind until all he can feel, find, fathom–is Minho. Whether it’s a dream or a reality, Minho wants to be there, loving him down.

A series of weak sounds bubble out of Jisung and they’re so quiet that Minho almost misses them beneath the significantly louder slapping of hips to ass accompanied by a cocktail of fluids squelching between them. 

Minho stares like a wild animal as Jisung’s fingers twitch around the plushie, restless and searching. Like they’d realized what they’d been holding was not in fact, Minho. 

Between the two of them, Jisung has always been more romantic in seemingly every way. Even in slumber, they always had to be touching. If Minho was curled up on one side of the bed, Jisung would subconsciously stretch a leg out so at least a single toe was a point of contact, like a circuit seeking its current. 

“I’m right here baby, hey.” Quite literally whipping the plushie towards the wall, Minho replaces the grip Jisung had on it with his own hand, intertwining their fingers on the mattress right beside his head. He drops onto his left forearm so he can half cage Jisung in while continuing to fuck into his heat and he can't help but laugh, utterly infatuated with how their own mutual obsession for one another could transcend just about anything.

“Can’t you feel me?” He slows up in favor of burying himself as deep inside as he can, but not without purpose. “I’m right…” He guides their interlocked hands down to Jisung’s lower abdomen. “...here.”  He thrusts in again, and again, the bulge of his cock greeting the back of Jisung’s hand each time, grazing his knuckles. 

“Made for me.” Aggression finds its way back into his thrusts, and he uses their joined hands to apply more pressure onto Jisung’s stomach, forming a vice for his own cock. “Made for me.”

Made for me.

He doesn’t know how many times he repeats it; head slumped down onto Jisung’s shoulder as he fucks into him with an inconsistent, chasing pace that Jisung would absolutely be whining about, but he wills himself up to release Jisung’s hand so it doesn’t cramp from the awkward position before properly caging him with both forearms.

Minho enshrouds him like a dark curtain, no longer haloed by the well-forgotten movie playing behind them, and finally, he blinks.

God, when did he last blink? His eyes are dry—burning, actually. Nothing he couldn’t live through. There’s eyedrops in the bathroom cabinet, a tomorrow problem. Tonight is a shooting star: not guaranteed to happen twice, and fleeting enough to be missed in a blink. An alien magnificence. 

The little noises continue to pepper out of Jisung until they digress back to those defyingly steady breaths–his exhaustion too much to even keep up on autopilot–and Minho’s face softens so much he fears it might actually melt off of his skull. 

Everything about Jisung’s face is soft and serene, flushed pretty as a poppy, where Minho’s is a pinprick away from predation, sharp and piercing. 

Minho wants to sink his teeth in the apple of his cheek. Eat him whole. Hear him cry. But he can’t. Tonight is a gift and tomorrow there’s no time.

But he’d find time. In a dressing room, in a hotel, at an in-and-out in LA. He’d make it work. 

Minho feels a lump in his throat and a heat in his stomach, somehow at the same time, and his hips snap right into Jisung’s prostate, a spot so intimately known that he doesn’t even have to try to find it anymore.

“Marry me.” Minho blurts it from somewhere in the fond, fucked out crevices of his soul.

With the last bit of energy and his orgasm desperately trying to rattle its way through his core, he sits back up and suspends Jisung by the hips, nothing short of pounding into him now. The position isn’t ideal for finishing, but there’s not much he can do about it so he just spears Jisung onto him, using every ounce of arm strength he didn’t know he still possessed since being on break. Every pronounced vein teeters on the edge of rupturing.

If he couldn’t hear his own breaths stumbling out of him he’d think he was suffocating from the inside out. 

Yeah, he wants to marry Jisung. 

“I’ll get you a real ring.” He scrapes his nails up to the perfect taper of Jisung’s waist and locks there, pistoning into him at a rate that has sweat beading down his temples and thighs burning from exertion. 

Part of him hopes that Jisung wakes up, because it’s about time he see that Minho can be a romantic sap, too. In true Jisung fashion, he would want to be the one to propose. Minho knows that, even though they’ve never really talked about it outside of the occasional daydream of someday, but if there’s one singular romantic thing Minho can do in his life, it would be to propose to Jisung.  

Minho shows love in action, in providing, and what could be a better thing to provide than forever?

“I’ll take you to the sushi place we went to–the first time we ever went out to eat together as trainees.” The words fall out of him like a promise between pleasure struck moans, and they don’t stop.

“Then I’ll take you down to the Han river for dessert.” He wraps a hand around Jisung’s steadily leaking cock, a telltale sign he’s going to come, and twists his wrist just the way he likes, that he’d be thanking him for.

“We’ll have cheesecake. You’ll complain that you’re full from dinner but you’ll still eat your entire piece and half of mine.” He laughs, out of breath and running on the fumes of his own reverie.

“I’ll get you lilies. A bouquet big enough that you’ll turn red in the face. Hopefully you’ll be too distracted to make fun of how red I’ll be, too.” The scene playing out in his head is enough to run a fresh flush up to his ears. Every part of him threatens to burst and burn. Not from pain or pleasure, though. Something else.

“That just leaves one last stop. Do you know where I’d take you, bug?” His voice feels like it’s raising an octave with each declaration, and of course, Jisung doesn’t answer.

Something else. Kind of like how a volcano erupts after thousands of years, waiting for pressure to pledge its imminent release. 

“I’d take you back to Namsan Tower. No one else would be there, just us.” Minho isn’t the type of person to make money talk, but for a proposal to Jisung, nothing is out of the question. “I’ll set up my phone on a timer and say something corny like I want to take an updated photo with my husband and you’ll look around all cartoon-like and confused, cute as can be.” 

He can’t believe he’s choking on words. Maybe he’s the one dreaming after all.

His thrusts force Jisung up on the pillow so much that he has to cradle the top of his head so he doesn’t knock into the headboard. Better this way. No one would notice the bruises on Minho’s knuckles or think twice about it if they did. Boxing practice again?

“You’ll play along though, you always do.” Minho doesn’t even know if he’s talking out loud anymore, and if he is, he hopes this little rom-com he’s fabricating is finding its way into Jisung’s dreams like it’s finding its way to the corners of his eyes, making everything glassy and he’s so close–close to the brink of crying, climax–full to the brim and about to overflow. 

“You’ll wave your hand around and stick your hip out, sassy thing.” He puts on his best Jisung impression given the circumstances, tilting his head side to side with a pointed pout. “I don’t see a ring on my finger, hyung, do you?”

He takes a deep breath, focuses. On the scene in his head and the coil in his stomach. “And I’ll walk up to you with more purpose than I have with anything in my entire life, drop to a knee, and open a little box with the prettiest ring I can find that still pales in comparison to you, my jagi. No, but I’d like to. Will you marry me, Han Jisung?”  

Could be coincidence, could be fate, but Jisung comes into Minho’s fist hard and hot–awake in everything but consciousness–and it tears Minho’s orgasm out of him with a shockwave that racks through his entire body, together in the same instant that he slams his prostate one final time. 

Minho spills inside of Jisung so intensely that he sobs without actual tears. His hand that was protecting Jisung's head drops to fist into the sheets in an attempt to ground himself as the suffocation finally envelopes him and takes his breaths hostage, completely overwhlemed.

He hears the movie, nearing its end. He tastes Jisung’s spend on his tongue as he licks his hand clean in a haze. He feels his cock filling Jisung as it surges through one of the most wild orgasms he’s ever experienced. And he sees Jisung, the love of his life, bruised and beautiful beneath him, asleep. 

“Breathe.” Nothing feels involuntary anymore. He has to coach himself back to life.

He breathes. Unclenches from the sheets. Reaches back up to Jisung's hair. Pets the stray pieces back down. 

“I can’t–how did you–” He heaves, sniffles, grateful there’s no actual wetness on his face. “I can’t believe you slept through this, baby.” 

Minho didn’t spend too much time thinking about why Jisung was able to sleep like the dead while he had one of the most religious sexual experiences of his life, but he’d like to think that because it was Minho, he was able to rest. Knowing he’d be safe, taken care of, and treated like the very last star in the sky. 

Minho is Jisung’s peace. Jisung is Minho’s sanctuary.  

Ecstasy soon transforms into exhaustion, and as much as Minho initially wanted to test the bounds of overstimulation, he’ll just have to hope there’s a next time. 

He tugs his shirt over his shoulders, so absolutely gross that he outwardly shivers like a wet cat–a critical error that he didn’t remove it earlier–but perhaps it’s for the better, because he’s just going to get it dirty anyways and tomorrow he has to do laundry. 

They’ve done far worse with infinitely more expensive outfits. 

“You did so well, jagiya.” He praises, using his shirt to clean up any of Jisung’s remaining cum that escaped onto his stomach. He chucks it and misses their laundry basket. Whatever.

Minho combs his fingers through his own hair, mirroring the way Jisung had earlier, but now the sweat makes every strand slick and stick in position. He needs a haircut. He needs to look at engagement rings. He starts a list in his head as he slowly pulls out from Jisung, eyes darting to the nightstand for the second time that night. 

Before he pulls out entirely, he maneuvers their bodies so he can get his fingers on the drawer and slide it open, straining the life out of his arm in the process. Smooth metal meets his palm and he plucks it out with an exasperated huff.

A plug.

They didn’t use plugs too often, but since they’ve had a few weeks off, Jisung has become–in very Jisung fashion–hyper fixated, and now they own more than there are days in the week. All different shapes and sizes. Some even have names. Some are just for Jisung, and some are just for Minho. 

Getting the mail every day has turned into a guessing game of Is it what Minho ordered for the kitchen renovations or Is it a plug that Jisung is going to ask Minho to drop everything for so he can fuck him over the kitchen island and perform ‘quality control’?

Minho likes the days where it’s both. He gets to lay tile and plug leaky holes. Win win.

The plug Minho holds now is one Jisung has had an affinity for as of late: simple in design but sizable enough to where it made him feel comfortably full, tapering just right, with a shimmery pink jewel at its base. 

He finally pulls out completely, hissing at his own discomfort, and before anything can go to waste, he inserts the plug into Jisung’s fluttering hole until the jewel is pressed right against it. Perfect and pretty. 

“Snug as a bug with a plug.” Minho sings out, heart swollen with devotion. Usually Jisung would squirm and cover his face in embarrassment, but now Minho just gets to admire the scene, sans insecurity, through a lens of nothing less than pure worship. He doesn’t take it for granted. 

He smooths his palms up the curves that map Jisung’s hips, the valley of his tiny waist, up to the broadening planes of his chest. He thumbs along the gothic font, the rosy flush finally fading back to its honey hue as his body comes down from it all. 

In all the time he’s known Jisung, Minho has never understood how he could always get more beautiful than he believed he could be in any given moment. But here Minho is, almost eight years later, more enamoured by round cheeks and a sharp jawline—be them stubble-less and missing a mole he used to kiss so frequently—than ever before. More muscles that still go soft beneath his hyung. More tattoos that only he was blessed enough to carve his fingers into and adore for all they’re worth. For Jisung was an ever changing art piece, more beautiful in every iteration because Minho was the only one who could interpret a beauty like his. 

He takes in the sight one last time, lips quirked at the corners.

With the adrenaline wearing off and sleep weighing heavy, Minho pulls Jisung’s hoodie back down and cards his fingers through his bangs so they’re no longer stuck to his forehead either, and he collapses on the mattress beside him, unable to comprehend how the movie is still playing. It feels like it’s been hours, years; like Jisung fell asleep and froze time itself. The last few conscious cells in his body tell him to set an alarm for the morning, and he rolls back over to pull the extremely crooked and disheveled duvet over them both. Leebit just so happens to get launched from the bed to the floor, entirely definitely by accident because Minho had to stretch his legs.

Then, as magnets do, they connect. Jisung curls up so his back is to Minho’s chest and Minho slips an arm beneath the hoodie and around his waist so his palm can rest right in the center of Jisung’s chest, lulled by a beating heart.

Jisung’s leg flexes with a twitch, the briefest disgruntled noise rumbling low in his throat. Minho giggles, figuring the soreness is probably settling in. 

Before sleep takes him and he’s faced with inferior dreams, Minho sinks his lips into Jisung’s hair to press a kiss to the crown of his head, murmuring with an absolutely terrible Howl impression in time with the close of the movie. “Jisungie, your hair looks just like starlight, it’s beautiful.” 

If Jisung were awake, he’d slap him on the arm and scoff about how his black hair most definitely does not look like starlight, maybe a black hole-which they still have to finish that documentary on–but he’d still kiss Minho and thank him anyway.

Minho falls asleep to the thought of a ring adorned with emeralds and cheeks that would turn the most gorgeous shade of pink at the sight. 

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ᶻ 𝘇 𐰁 ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

For the first time ever, Jisung is up before their alarm. Up, and up. 

Minho must’ve woken up in an alternate reality. That, or he’s still asleep. Between last night and now, he truly can’t tell anymore. He’s sore everywhere.

He clears his throat, now dry for several reasons, and repeats what Jisung had asked before he even opened his eyes.

“Jisung, are you suggesting we sixty-nine at,” He picks his phone up off the nightstand and taps the screen, eyes needing a solid three seconds to register the time. A blink for each one. “5:45am?”

Not even a good morning, hyung!

Not even a loving mongnyongmongnyong kneaded into his stomach with a perfect little meow because some days Jisung took the fourth cat role very seriously.

Strange. 

Jisung is very awake, uncharacteristically so, and Minho fears he fucked the sense out of him. 

He just stares, watching as Jisung vigorously throws the blankets off of them. More candy from last night scatters onto the floor and the sound makes Minho wince, too sharp too early–but then Jisung is clambering onto Minho’s midsection, face full of mischief and something else he can’t place.  

“No,” Before Minho can even figure out what to do with his hands, Jisung suddenly turns to reverse straddle him and presents Minho with a view of the pretty jewel shimmering between his cheeks. It’s then accompanied with a tantalizing arch, earning a confused–but by no means disinterested–eyebrow raise from Minho before Jisung matter-of-factly clarifies, “I’m suggesting we sixty-nine and then you let me ride you.”

“That’s basically the same thing–” 

And then Jisung’s mouth is on the tip of his cock, sloppy and drool slick and Minho can not be awake right now. There’s just no way. This has to be some insane wet dream. 

Either way, he’s so hard it hurts and he doesn’t have the self control to hold it together, so for the sake of time and his currently aching cock that Jisung is latched onto like a lifeline, they’ll have to be quick.

“Shit, Jisung.” He groans at the sound of Jisung’s lips on his cock, at every audible little pop when he has to pull off to let out a broken series of breaths. It all has Minho on the brink far too fast. Having gone all night without hearing Jisung, it’s like everything is dialed up to eleven. It paralyzes him and goes straight south. 

Jisung senses his hesitation and rocks his hips back, low voice vibrating against his cock in a way that blinks Minho back to life, “Need to be filled up, please hyung.” 

A switch flips at please, and Minho takes control.

Minho is a simple man. He will do whatever Jisung asks. War, crime, sex before 6am—his love has no bounds because Jisung is the sun and Minho can’t live without him. 

“Oh but baby,” Catching up to the task, he smooths his hands up Jisung’s cheeks, kneading and spreading them so he’s greeted with a glimmer. He takes the jeweled end of the plug and pulls it out enough to make Jisung think he's actually removing it, then clicks his tongue, “You’re already so full, why can’t I just leave you like this, hm?” 

Not waiting for a response, he thrusts the plug back inside and presses his thumb down against the jewel once it’s seated within him–hard–and it rips a cry out of Jisung that makes Minho’s heart sing. So much higher than his usual speaking voice, a siren that would lead Minho to wreck. Sounds he didn’t get to hear all night, that he missed, that he needed to hear more of, as compensation. Right now. 

“Minho please—please, jagi—”

“Hm?” Minho draws lines with his fingertips around the plug, then feather light over his perineum. He lets his nails bury into the meat of his cheeks, scraping little lines that will disappear within the hour, all while intentionally avoiding what Jisung wants him to do. 

Jisung pops his lips off of Minho’s cock with another frustrated cry as Minho brings a hand down to slap his right cheek, skin blooming from the contact. Jisung just rubs his face along his shaft, trying to arch himself back until Minho has nothing but a face full of his ass. Begging. 

Minho massages the reddened area with his thumb while he waits for Jisung to find his words. And maybe find an explanation for why they’re in this position in the first place.

It only comes once Minho gives the plug a twist, eyes busy watching the way his hole stretches around the widest part of it.

“Wanna feel you while I'm awake.” He drags the fat of his tongue up the underside of Minho’s entire length, just the way Minho likes it. “Wanna be fucked so good the other members can see it on me.”

Minho’s breath hitches.

“Oh?” Minho pulls the plug so it’s almost fully out, letting Jisung’s hole contract around the narrowing tip. “I thought you said you needed to be able to walk for rehearsals today?”

The proposal is certainly tempting to the possessive Scorpio ruminating within him, even if he doesn’t believe in astrology.

But Jisung does. Because Felix does. There was a month where they both fixated on birth charts and Minho feared for the worst, all for Jisung to end up bragging about how compatible they were and proclaim he knew it anyway. That he didn’t need stars to tell him that Minho was his soulmate. 

It’s cool to know, but the only way the stars could stop me from loving you is if the sun literally exploded.

I wasn’t worried but thank you for the reassurance, bug.

Minho would fuck Jisung right in front of the members if it meant they could see who he belonged to, how much he loved him and how good only Minho could make him feel. But since he can’t–Jisung has shot it down on three separate occasions–watching Jisung wobble around rehearsals will have to do.

When Jisung doesn’t answer immediately, back to sucking on the tip of his cock and likely floating away, Minho just sighs with feigned exasperation and bucks his hips, fucking shallowly into his eager little mouth. To be this cockdumb at five in the morning was both the best and worst thing for Minho. Pliant and perfect, but also more impatient and restless than he’d ever seen him, borderline anxious. 

Minho would find the balance for them both, that way Jisung could have whatever he wanted and Minho would be his reason. 

He flicks his wrist to smack just beneath the mark he’d just left, “Answer, bug. We don’t have a lot of time.” 

Jisung whines right around his cock and pulls off like it’s an inconvenience, tired of being interrupted but too obedient to defy, and he shakes his head like he was trying to rid himself of a memory, “Todays just production stuff and vocal rehearsals—” 

Minho starts pushing the plug back in when it’s not the full answer, his patience wearing thin. “You’re wasting an awful lot of time for someone who wants to be fucked in less than ten minutes, baby.”

Jisung squeezes his hands into the soft give of Minho’s lower abdomen and speaks so fast that anyone who wasn’t exactly Minho wouldn’t understand him. “I don’t need to walk. I need you. I need you to fuck me boneless. Don't care about anything else. Please, hyung.”

“That's my good boy.” 

Minho ceases his teasing and pulls the plug out in one fell swoop. Between that and the praise, Jisung is already leaking precum onto Minho’s torso, back to bobbing his head on his cock in earnest. A nonverbal thank you. 

“You’re welcome, baby.” Minho tosses the plug somewhere on the bed, adding to the mess for future Minho to deal with.

He holds Jisung’s cheeks open so he can marvel for just a moment as his own cum—a physical reminder of him fucking Jisung in his sleep—drips out of him like an invitation. Real.

He licks his lips, eyes flashing something dark that he’s grateful Jisung can’t see from him so early in the morning.

“God you’re so pretty. You took me so well last night. Did you feel me, baby?” He pulls Jisung’s closer by the hips, breathing the words out against his hole, “Did you dream of me?”

Jisung outright whimpers, not even taking his mouth off of Minho to answer, like he can’t bear to be away from his cock, all muffled and barely intelligible and god if it doesn’t ignite a fire in the pit of his core. “F-felt so full—slept so good—” He braces his hands down on Minho’s thighs and laps his tongue over the slit of his tip to eat up beads of precum, “Dreamt of you fucking me on the flight to Santiago.”

Minho laughs, endeared out of his mind.

“Fuck, how would we even do that, hm?”

He doesn’t even know if Jisung heard him because he leans in to start sucking on his hole, drinking up everything he’s left behind like nectar. Jisung’s legs nearly buckle and he arches impossibly further, effectively suffocating Minho, though it only motivates him more. He fucks his tongue inside of him like the last source of oxygen lies among his walls, robbed of all senses except the symphony of moans that cascade out of Jisung and right onto his cock. 

Jisung doesn’t answer and Minho doesn’t mind. The pleasure circumventing between their bodies is enough. 

He licks Jisung clean, though it’s entirely temporary since the countdown to ruin is ticking, and they’re only going to get messier, “I guess you could ride me, if we tried to–” he braces his hands on Jisung’s ass so he can tip his head back and catch his breath, “fuck on the plane.”

It’s certainly not the worst idea Jisung’s ever had, and they’ve fucked just about everywhere else over the last few years, so it’s more of a surprise that plane sex hasn’t been checked off yet. But then there’s the stalkers. The close quarters of it. The fact that Jisung is loud, and a crier. There’s not a single grain of inconspicuousness that they could pull off in the confines of a plane.

But now that the idea has been presented, there’s no universe where they’re not going to try. It’s a long flight, everyone has to sleep eventually, right?

His cock bumps against the back of Jisung’s throat and when he hears a weak sniffle but no verbal response, he taps two fingers on the small of his back, keeping his voice soft, encouraging. Something solely for Jisung. “Why don’t you show hyung how you’d do it, hm? Maybe then it won’t have to just be a dream.”

Jisung is off of his cock and turning around so fast that Minho is afraid he’ll accidentally launch himself off the bed, being as clumsy as he is. He holds his arms out like brackets so he doesn’t. The hurriedness of it all has them both giggling between positions and their voices marry into a song entirely their own.

“I can do that.” He states breathlessly, lips cherry red and swollen and his hair is stuck up in five different places. It’s the first good look Minho has gotten of him since waking up. Still the most beautiful face Minho has ever seen, and now he’s going to make him cry at six in the morning. 

Minho reaches out to fist the strings of Jisung’s hoodie and pulls him down for a short but tender kiss that veils everything he’s about to do to him.

“I know you can, bug. Show me how good it will be.”

He gives one more light smack to the round of his ass and Jisung does exactly as he’s told. 

With not a moment to waste, Jisung lines up and sinks down onto Minho with an ease that they’ve come to love since beginning their plug-scapades. Minho never considered the time-sensitive use of plugs, but now he’s cataloging it as absolutely vital information.

A strangled string of ah ah ah’s chirp out of Jisung, and Minho fights back the immediate urge to fuck up into him until he sounds like a broken record. 

Fully seated and flush against Minho, Jisung rolls his hips, adjusting to the remaining amount of stretch needed to account for Minho’s size, because while the plug was wonderful, it wasn’t even a comparison. Minho reveled in that, just a little bit. 

“There you go, baby. Good.” He doesn’t help beyond gentle praise; just rests his hands on Jisung’s hips to act as a tether, able to tighten and guide him back down, in whatever way that may manifest. “Taking hyung so well, you feel so perfect.”

Jisung smiles brighter than the sunbeams that pour through the window as it rises, and the light that warms up half of his face sure does make a pretty picture.

Now, Minho can enjoy the view.

Jisung raises himself up about halfway on his cock before dropping down, creating a rhythm that has him taking more and more with each pass before he’s leaving just the tip submerged inside of him and plunging down like gravity didn’t want them in any other position. 

“Min–baby, ah–can you,” Jisung scrambles to anchor his fingers right beside the scar on Minho's stomach, the flow of his hips getting more irregular by the second. “Please.”

“You wanted to show me how good it would be. You mean to tell me you’re already tired?” His eyes flit from Jisung’s erratic pace up to his big, glassy eyes; wet beneath long lashes, one denial away from spilling into full sobs. His bottom lip is sucked right between his teeth and it makes being patronizing so much harder, “Baby has all those muscles and you can’t even get yourself to come on hyung’s cock?” 

He flicks at Jisung’s bicep, tense and taut and so, so useless underneath their hoodie. Jisung’s cock jerks and his eyes widen, devastation animating every inch of his face.

“I can do it! I just–ah–need a little help–” His voice devolves the more he talks, weakly slapping a hand against Minho’s chest like a petulant kitten who doesn’t know better, “Please hyung, ‘m gonna cry if you don’t–” 

Except Jisung absolutely knows better, and Minho might’ve forgiven him for being a brat this early in the morning, had this not all been his idea in the first place. 

It seems that Jisung had floated so far into the clouds that he forgot who held the rope.

“Hands behind your back, Jisung.” 

Jisung opens his mouth to bite back, but Minho bites harder, faster. With a tone so airy with indignation that Jisung complies with the command by the time it leaves Minho’s mouth.

“Now.”

He doesn’t miss the way Jisung’s cock leaks.

“I’m going to fuck you, just like you want. Okay?” The guise of reward works, and Jisung lights up, but the acutely intense look on Minho’s face has the joy fleeing as fast as it came, “That’s right, baby. Hyung’s going to fuck you until you can’t walk.” He bends his knees and puts his weight on his heels, lifting Jisung by the hips so that he pops off his cock. 

Jisung’s eyes swell wide; little slippery saucers.

Minho is going to destroy him.

“Just.” He starts by slamming Jisung all the way back down, thrusting up so they collide with a harsh smack of skin.

He pulls out again.

“Like.” Then, he drives his heels into the mattress and plunges his hips right into Jisung.

“You.” He ties the motions together, spearing Jisung down onto his cock while he fucks up into him with no regard, using more core strength than he knew conceivable at this hour just to hold himself inside of Jisung, buried so deep he hopes it rewires his neurons so that everything fires for him and him alone. 

“Wanted.” The pace is merciless, a complete flip from last night where he wanted to be nothing but careful. Now, it’s punishing. He wants Jisung to feel the way his cock rearranges his insides, commit every brutal beat of his hips to memory while he sobs and stutters above him, barely able to hold himself up; mouth hung open so not a single sweet decible could go unheard.  

Maybe this is exactly what Jisung wanted. Maybe it was never about a dream of fucking on the plane to Santiago. Maybe he woke up and decided to be a brat on purpose. Maybe—

A lightbulb goes off in Minho’s head.

“Jisung,” He’s stern, but not cold. Impressively collected for the way he’s still trying to split Jisung in half. Curious, even. “Baby.”

Jisung is nothing more than a mess of moans, tears, and helplessness as he’s pounded into, babbling a combination of Thankyouthankyousorrysorryloveyouloveyou’s, so lost that he can’t even hold his eyes open nonetheless hear what Minho is saying. 

Minho reaches up to cup Jisung by the chin, the other hand keeping him steady as he refuses to let up his pace. He glides a thumb over the glistening plump of his lower lip, “Baby, look at me.”

Realizing he can’t hide behind the curtain of his own tears forever, Jisung finally blinks down at him, mousy and full of pout. Wetness puddles onto Minho’s chest.

“Jisung,” He says again, holding his attention. “Are you…jealous that I fucked you while you slept?” 

It sounds even sillier coming out of his mouth, but when Jisung’s expression shifts to one of a caught animal and his face rushes red, Minho is actually stunned speechless.

“I–what if–” Jisung’s tongue is heavy and his voice feels far away, pitchy. The tears are back, streaming down his cheeks and he only further works himself up with his own words. “What if it was better than when–when I’m awake?” 

Minho gawks. Shuts down. Reboots. 

He pulls out of Jisung and rolls them both, so Jisung is on his back under him and Minho is right where he was last night. He cups Jisung's cheek, swiping away the tears as they come. 

“Baby, Jisung, lovebug.” He punctuates each word with a kiss. Sweaty forehead. Wet cheek where his mole used to be. Bite bruised lips. “I promise you, as grateful as I am that you gave me the chance–” He bottoms out into Jisung to reassure his point, “Nothing, and I mean nothing will ever be better than this.”

Jisung seems to read him amidst his breakdown, which Minho would invite him to do all day. He’ll find nothing but certainty. 

“I just–when I woke up I panicked–thought you might’ve liked it more than–” He gestures vaguely to their very not vague position, and Minho cocks a brow. “This.”

Minho can’t help the smile that breaks onto his face. 

“So your solution was to have sex before sunrise and be a brat so I’d break you down?” The laughter follows. Jisung makes a scandalized sound and smacks him on the arm.

“I needed to know you weren’t bored of me!” He exclaims, like it’s just that obvious.

“You didn’t think to just, I don’t know, ask me how it was?” 

“I was scared!” 

“Of what, baby?” Minho rolls his hips, the new position allowing him to effortlessly hit his prostate, just like last night. 

But this time Jisung gasps, arches, and grips his bicep so hard his knuckles turn white. Minho wouldn’t trade it for anything, ever. “What was I going to do, leave you for…you?”

They both laugh, faces naturally drawing closer to one another. 

“Yeah okay it sounds really dumb, fuck–yeah.” Jisung rocks his hips down, trying to match the slowly increasing pace that Minho started to set, each thrust knocking his prostate and subsequently, the doubt from his mind. 

But just for good measure, Minho dives down to press a searing kiss to his lips, open mouthed and heavy, eating up any anxiety that lingered on his tongue.

Jisung fists his hands up into Minho’s hair, pulling their bodies flush so not an atom is spared between them, and Minho slings an arm beneath Jisung so he can continue to drill into his heat. Drill into him an indisputable truth because saying it isn’t enough. 

“I love you.” Two voices coalesce into one, because that’s what they’ve always been.

They just get hungrier. Insatiable in a way that being in each other’s skin still wouldn’t be enough. Jisung crosses his ankles around Minho’s back and is more off the mattress than he is on it at this point, hands wrenching in Minho’s hair to turn him this way and that, so that they’re stealing breaths right from each other’s throats. So codependent that nothing was too grand, that oxygen stood no chance between them, simply there to be swallowed up by passion. 

He licks into Jisung’s mouth, traces his teeth with his tongue, sinks his teeth into an already raw lower lip that hangs on the precipice of splitting, bleeding. 

“More, Minho. More.” 

The leash of his love is tugged, and he obliges unquestioningly.

Prominent front teeth plunge into the perfectly plump flesh. Iron blooms on his taste buds. He swears both of their cocks twitch in unison. 

He feels deranged—drunk, even, but apparently so must Jisung, because they’re still kissing like it made no difference and Jisung’s tongue is in his mouth, lapping up the blood like a vampire to a human blood bag. Minho moans , hard and heavy.

They’ll have to explore that one later.

“Fuck, Jisung–” Minho’s hips stutter but Jisung forces his heels into his back so he can hardly pull out. He groans against his lips, deliberately ramming into his prostate. “Need you to come, baby.” 

“Min–fill me–please–ah–fill me up. Wanna be full.” Jisung snakes a hand down to his stomach, hiking up his hoodie in order to press against the very bulge in his belly that Minho was admiring just hours ago, far more visible now that he isn’t holding back. Minho is already blacking out in the corners of his vision when Jisung applies a dizzying amount of pressure where his cock protrudes. “You’re so big, Min, look–ah–please, baby.”

“Wouldn’t want it any other way, bug.” With Jisung’s hands untangled from his hair, he uses the available space between their bodies to wrap his fist around Jisung’s neglected cock, twisting and pumping at a breakneck pace. “Gonna stuff you full, my good boy. My perfect Jisungie.”

“Oh–baby–thank you thank you, fuck–” Jisung’s entire body seizes up at the praise, and Minho finds his own breaths syncing up with the rapid strokes, his orgasm hurdling towards him as snaps his hips so hard he thinks he might end up struggling to walk by the end of this, too. 

“I’ve got you baby, hyung’s got you. Let go.”

Nothing will ever beat seeing Jisung when he comes. A sexual unraveling that has his eyes rolling back and heart shaped Adam's apple on display as he arches from head to toe with a cry, perfect ropes of white pouring out of him and into Minho’s ready hand. 

Every part of him trembles from the stimulation and Minho thrusts once, twice, with Jisung’s name on his tongue as his climax hits him like a tidal wave, crashing into Jisung at full force. 

“Love you, like this–no other way. You hear me?” Even though it hurts, even though it burns, he doesn’t care–he keeps fucking his own cum into Jisung with reckless abandon and Jisung takes it, begs for it, willing to let Minho shatter him into a million pieces if it meant he’d be happy. 

“Fuck–Minho, yes, ah, love you so much–more than anything, please, let me-” 

Jisung lifts Minho’s hand full of his own cum up over his mouth. Slacks his jaw. Tongue out.

Minho doesn’t know if it's possible to come twice within ten seconds, but when he opens his fist and watches the translucent fluid dribble onto Jisung’s tongue–watches Jisung eat his own cum–Minho just about dies.

He halts altogether, trapped in a trance.

“Jesus Christ, Jisung.” 

Jisung swallows every drop and licks Minho’s hand clean, with nothing but a smug, shit eating little grin on his face once he’s done. 

Minho doesn’t even blink, nonetheless think before speaking. 

“Do you want a Spring or a Winter wedding?”

Jisung lets his legs fall back to the mattress with a thump as Minho slowly pulls out, his whole body blasting with ache. Definitely got carried away at the end there. Jisung goes boneless, gaze drifting towards the window as he considers the question.

“Mm, Winter would be pretty. The snow makes it more romantic, don’t you think?” He muses.

Minho is quietly grateful that Jisung never asks why he says such random things, because they’re actually never random. Just purposefully out of context. 

Random is for freak accidents, statistics problems, and gacha games. 

Whereas everything about Minho and Jisung is intended. Fated. Strung together with the strongest red thread that gods could bind. 

Jisung treats all of it with the same level of validity, because he’s the most thoughtful human being on earth, and Minho is going to marry him.

“Come on, we need to shower.” Minho slips off the bed—a few joints crack—and he holds his arms out toward Jisung, making a grabbing gesture. “Hop on the hyung express.” 

He’d silenced the impending alarm on his phone with a whole minute to spare. They’ll still be late anyways. At least they won’t have to explain themselves. Jisung’s awkward shuffling and extra bisexual way of sitting will let the others know way more than they even wanted to entertain in the first place. Minho’s heart positively flutters, flies away, and soars at that.

Possessing a flair for theatrics, Jisung dramatically throws an arm over his eyes and reaches out towards Minho with the other like he’s on his deathbed. 

“I’m so weak! If only there was a big, strong man to save me from this spell that keeps me trapped in bed!” He wiggles his fingers out towards Minho, signaling him for his cue.

Minho loves him so much it’s stupid.

“Oh, poor princess!” Minho hovers his hand in front of his mouth, gasping in faux shock. “Fear not, for I, prince Minho of Sooniedoongiedoriland have traveled far and wide to save you, the most beautiful maiden in all the realms!” He flourishes his nonexistent cape and winks down at Jisung, with both eyes.

Jisung breaks into a fit of laughter. The kind where he laughs so hard he looks like he’s about to cry and implode at the same time so he has to bite on his fist.

He pulls it together, but just barely, to maintain character, “Save me, handsome prince with the sharpest nose in all the seven seas!” 

Minho scoops him up bridal style and Jisung swings his arms around Minho’s neck, beaming at him as if he really did just score a prince, tangerine shaped smile on radiant display.

“Thank you, sweet prince.” A kiss, square on his lips but it’s close mouthed and chaste, just like the fairy tales. 

Minho can’t help himself.

“Time to take you to my kingdom for a royal wedding, where everyone will love their new Queen.” He dips Jisung down as far as he can without feeling like his back is actually going to break and kisses him again, and once more after that. When he brings them back up, Jisung is apple red, clearly not having expected the off script dip kiss.

Minho starts towards the bathroom, silently applauding his small but successful step at being more romantic. He kicks the door open with his foot when Jisung pipes up again.

“I can’t wait to have royal babies.”

Minho sputters, laughs almost maniacally, and buries his face in Jisung’s hair, squeezing his whole body up against his chest like he’s a box of kittens.

“We’ll try our very best, my love.”

The shower turns on, and Jisung spends the rest of the time getting ready discussing baby names, wedding colors, and how he saw the most jaw dropping green and gold ring in a window display a few weeks ago while out shopping with Hyunjin and Felix. 

“The band was even shaped so that it looked like leaves on a tree, doesn’t that sound so pretty, hyung?”

Minho asks him where he saw it.

Jisung doesn’t ask him why.